


The Waves Wear All Away

by Anonymous



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 07:06:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5859031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Anairë, Tirion is too full of absences. She goes to Alqualondë, where Eärwen is still mourning the Kinslaying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Waves Wear All Away

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in 2013 for a femslash comment fic meme hosted by Elleth. The prompt was “Anairë/Eärwen - The waves will break every chain on me.”
> 
> Arafinwë: Finarfin (in Quenya, though I’m not sure if it’s what the Teleri would have called him)

Anairë cannot bear the silent emptiness of Tirion. Her footsteps seem to echo in the hollow colonnades. She almost feels she is in danger of disappearing herself, of fading away. One more absence here would hardly be noticed among so many. A sea-grey curtain flutters in the window of a deserted house, and her heart clenches. What must it be like for Eärwen, torn between her own kin and her husband’s kin? Her children, like Anairë’s, are gone. Eärwen’s husband remains in Aman, but he is here in Tirion, the crown of the Noldor heavy upon his brow, striving to build something whole from the fractured remnants of their people. Anairë does not think she can aid him. Her thoughts are scattered, like a mosaic with half the pieces missing. She takes the seaward road to Alqualondë.

There are guards armed with bows at the pearl archway, as there never were before. They look at her grimly as she approaches, taking in her dark hair and her garments made in the fashion of Tirion. One of the guards raises his hand in a signal to halt. “King Olwë has given orders that none of the Noldor may enter this city.”

Anairë squares her shoulders. “I have come to speak to Eärwen.”

“Arafinwë came here,” the other guard says. “She would not speak with him.”

“Ask her if she will speak with me.” The guards look at each other but do not move. “At least tell her I am here. Will you do that? Please!” They stand motionless as carved statues. She turns away and walks to the shore.

The lady wife of King Finwë’s regent in Tirion could not have spent the night on a beach without a dozen messengers or maidservants coming in search of her. There is no one who would think to look for her now; it is lonely but oddly freeing. She lies on her back, head pillowed on her arms, and looks up at the sky. The clinging mists have cleared away, and the stars are very bright. She whispers praise to Varda and closes her eyes.

There is nothing to distinguish night from day except her own sense of time. When she is no longer weary, she walks to the gates of the city again. A different pair of guards turns her away.

Anairë walks along the shore, listening to the small birds piping in the reeds. It seems foolish to keep her hair in the elaborate braids she wore in the High King’s court. She unravels them, letting her loose hair fly in the wind. When she needs something to do with her hands, she plucks up marsh-grasses and weaves them into a green circlet for her hair. She puts flowers in it at first, but the salt air withers them too quickly.

She does not feel hunger. When she is thirsty, she drinks from the fountain outside the gates. The guards watch but do not stop her. Anairë realizes with a pang that one of her people made the leaping dolphin which rises from the fountain. She thinks she recognizes the handiwork, but she does not look for the name engraved on the base.

She goes every day (what would be day) to ask for Eärwen. The guards still refuse to admit her. She wonders if they have at least told Eärwen that she is here.

She leaves her shoes in a sand-dune somewhere. By the time she thinks to return to look for them, one of them is gone, carried away by the waves or some creature of the shoreline. It does not trouble her. The sand is cool against her bare feet. She walks along the beach and constantly notices new things: the little crabs that dig holes in the sand, tiny fish darting in the waves, the different patterns on the wings of the roving gulls.

On the seventh day (what would be day), Eärwen is standing by the gate.

Anairë’s heart leaps. She fears for a moment that it is only a vision born of her hopes, but Eärwen’s presence is real and solid. The guards are carefully not looking at King Olwë’s daughter. Anairë parts her lips to speak, but Eärwen’s face is still and remote. She walks past Anairë without greeting her and takes the path to the shore. Anairë follows in silence.

In the starlight, Eärwen kneels on the white sand and stretches her arms to the ocean. The waves alight in her slender hands like fluttering birds, water slipping through her fingers. Anairë wishes she too could clasp Eärwen’s hands, but she does not dare.

Eärwen rises and wades into the water, letting the spray dash about her knees. Anairë follows. They walk parallel to the shore for a long time, not speaking. Gradually, something softens in Eärwen’s posture; she is no longer so stiff and still. Underwater, the little fish dart about their ankles. Eärwen walks closer to her side, and when the wind blows one of her braids to brush against Anairë’s shoulder, Anairë feels it as a blessing. When they return, Anairë’s skirts are soaked to the knee. Eärwen, of smaller stature and walking on the seaward side, is wet to the waist, and her dress clings to her skin.

At the gates, Eärwen says softly, “Come again tomorrow.” Her fingers press against Anairë’s before she vanishes.


End file.
